


Back to You

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, R Plus L Equals J, Sharing a Bed, Smut, minor - Jon/Daenerys, minor - Jon/Val
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 12:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: "We can't, Sansa," his voice cuts through her colder than the North in winter, "it's not right."He won't let her sneak into his bed anymore, nestled into the hollow of his throat where she feels safe, trembling and haunted by Ramsay's ghost.It's another thing the Dragon Queen has stolen from her – and Sansa hates her for it.





	Back to You

She's in his bed from the very beginning, the night she arrives at Castle Black.

She leaves the hard, tiny bed his stewards have made up for her and slips into his just after midnight. She tries not to make a sound as she lifts his furs and rests her head on the pillow.

On the floor, guarding the foot of the bed, Ghost peeks his head up curiously. He lays it back down when he sees it's only her.

She's a _Stark_, the wolf's blood hot in her veins, and he trusts her already.

As she closes her eyes against the flickering light from Jon's still burning candle, the room spins and unsettling images sear behind her vision. Her mind feels broken, slipping into insanity, and she fights for solid ground.

_You're fine_, she desperately tries to calm herself, as Ned Stark's head is severed from his body and a knife is plunged into Robb's chest and her mother grips at a throat gushing crimson. The images get worse, flickering faster until all she sees is red, and her breath feels shallow in her chest.

Her knuckles turn white as she grips at Jon's sheets like she's at risk of sinking into them, what little is left of her slipping away and vanishing into the dark.

He senses her then, the bed shifting as he wakes, but she can't open her eyes.

"Sansa?" his voice is gruff and hoarse from sleep, "what's wrong?"

_Everything_.

"Nothing," she lies the way Petyr taught her.

His unspoken question hangs heavy in the air - but Jon is Jon.

Silent and strong, he doesn't question her. He doesn't push. She just hears him lay his head back down on the pillow.

Her jaw is clenched so tight she thinks her teeth might break and she can imagine the curious expression etched on his sullen features but still, she can't open her eyes.

She doesn't curl into him yet. She doesn't yet know how comforting it is to have her calf wrapped around his, her fingers clutching the material of his nightshirt at his chest, his own tracing absentminded circles on the small of her back.

She doesn't know that the hollow of his throat, that warm patch of skin just where his neck meets his shoulder, _that's_ where she feels safe.

For now, their fingertips touch and Sansa can sleep.

It's the night before the Battle for Winterfell, the first time Sansa contemplates sleeping alone.

Their fight feels fresh, their words like poison bouncing off the walls of the tent. She still tastes them bitter on her tongue.

_Stubborn fool_, she thinks angrily. _Stubborn, noble, pig-headed fool._

She doesn't want him near her tonight. She doesn't want his warmth, his strength, his smell - leather and spice and smoke from the fire. He's a fool to think he can win without her help.

To _think_ he knows Ramsay Bolton better than she does, when the scars from his blade litter her body and under her carefully placed collar, purple bite marks still mottle her skin.

She paces her tent, restless and aching and beyond tired, and she can't remember what it was like to sleep alone.

He's infuriating.

The stoic, unmovable Commander Snow.

She's not reaching for him. She's resolute. She's not going.

But then – _then_…

What if he really does fall on the battlefield and she never sees him again? What if he leaves her behind, alone in the world without him? What if this is really it and by tomorrow, he'll be gone and she'll be alone every night, for the rest of her nights?

Her mind swims with these _what ifs_ – and then she's at the entrance of his tent without even realising she's walked there.

He's frowning, but he's always frowning, and he doesn't look scared – just resigned and quiet and mostly very, very tired. He stares at her for a beat before he lifts the furs and she climbs in next to him, barely enough room for one in the tiny cot. She doesn't mind. She wants to be close, for him to crawl inside her where she can hold onto him and keep him safe and never let him bleed out onto the battlefield.

He might be a fool, but he also might be dead tomorrow.

Ramsay's gone, bits of him still caught in the jaws of his hounds, but his ghost remains.

When it's over, when all is said and done, she only wants to be with Jon.

She thanks the knights for their brave service. She embraces Tormund and Ser Davos and even Lord Baelish. She thanks them all and sends them on their way.

She and Jon are safe now, they're home, and they should be together.

Walking through the hallowed halls, once so familiar, she blinks back hot tears. She feels the ghosts of her family still lingering here, Mother and Father and Robb and Rickon… and she _needs_ Jon. She needs him so violently, she's practically shaking with it.

This is how she finds herself back in his old room – the room he's chosen again, though he could have had any - standing cradled between his legs as he sits on his desk.

"You don't have to do this," he's murmuring in that low, rough brogue as she softly wrings the cloth out in the copper bowl next to them and returns it to his face.

He hisses at the contact, grimacing as she dabs at a particularly deep cut slicing his cheekbone.

"You almost died today," she says quietly, evenly, "this is the least I can do."

He nods shortly and the blank nature of his expression saddens her. Death doesn't terrify him the way it terrifies her. He's no stranger to it. She wants to ask him more about his men's betrayal when he was Lord Commander. He never talks about it, not to anyone and especially not to her. She wants to ask him how it felt to die and whether he saw their family on the other side and if he did, are they happy, are they safe?

But he's already given so much of himself today, sacrificed so much for her, she can't ask it of him.

Words burn in her chest, but she can't find a way to get them out.

"I've bathed already," he points out, a small quirk to his eyebrow. His dark eyes, penetrating like valerian steel, flicker to the corner of the room, where his mud and blood-soaked armour lay, tossed carelessly on the stone floor.

"Your cuts still bleed," Sansa replies, dipping the cloth back into the tepid water. She raises it to his face again, softly stroking his skin, cleaning some dirt behind his ear that he's missed, "and the mud is stubborn."

He doesn't argue again and she's grateful. Silence falls over them, comfortable in a strange way, and not for the first time, she's thankful for the calm air Jon Snow seems to carry with him.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs after a while, his honeyed Northern accent lower than usual.

Sansa laughs, but there's little humour in it.

"You've been bruised, beaten and sliced open. You saw our brother die before your eyes and almost beat a man to death with your bare hands… and you're asking if I'm okay?"

Jon doesn't laugh.

He sees straight through her, through her pitiful attempts at distraction, and his finger comes up to lift her chin.

"Sansa," he says simply, dark eyes searching her face.

Her eyes and throat burn and she wants to look away, but she just _can't_.

"Ramsay was an awful man," she says, "An evil man. The things he did to me…"

She has to look away as painful memories sear behind her eyes. She fights to calm her stuttering heartbeat, all the while feeling the heat of Jon's gaze on her, bringing her back to Earth.

"He deserved it," she whispers, but it sounds like a question.

"Aye, he did," Jon's reply is immediate. She continues dabbing at his face, stroking over skin long clean, and his hand comes up to gently catch her wrist, "Sansa, he did. You have no idea how much I wanted to kill him. Just the thought of him touching you again…"

He lets go of her wrist, but his touch still burns.

She tries to distract herself by cleaning his face, but the water is long cold now and the cuts all dried up.

"Yet you let him go… why?"

He stares at her, gaze dark and penetrating and _Jon_.

"For you, Sansa…" he murmurs in that rough brogue, "it was all for you."

Her hand pauses mid-air as she stops cleaning his cuts to just look at him. She grips the cloth tighter, covered in mud and sweat and dirt, soaked crimson with his blood.

She knows what he means, reads the subtext behind his words.

Despite his notoriety, all the battles he's won, Ramsay wasn't his fight.

She stares at him, at this brave and brilliant man, and she's warmed by the thought of his sacrifice, the lengths he was willing to go for her.

She doesn't know whether to kiss him or cry.

It scares her suddenly, how she's not looking at him the way a sister should, but she won't dwell on it, won't punish herself, because it feels _right_ when everything else is wrong.

"I know we're home now," she whispers and the word warms her chest, "but I can still feel what Ramsay did to me here. For every good memory, there are two bad ones. So, can I stay with you still… just for a little while… just until it feels like home again?"

He stares at her for a beat, silent and strong.

Then he takes her hand.

"Aye," he says, "always."

"King in the North…" she breathes the words out incredulously. It's been a few hours since their people fell to their knees for him, bowed before their swords, and Sansa still can't quite wrap her head around it.

He lays beside her, staring at the ceiling while she stares at him.

"Are you angry with me?" he says eventually, still not looking at her.

"_Angry_ with you?"

He turns his head then, eyes almost black in the darkness.

"Winterfell is yours by right," he says, voice even and matter of fact, "and I couldn't have won it back without you."

Sansa swallows, quietly contemplating this. Perhaps, deep down, an increasingly black part of her is angry, resentful. She's the eldest surviving child of Eddard Stark. The North should be hers. Why should she lose out, should she be thought incapable of claiming her own birth-right, just because of what is – or isn't – between her thighs?

But for every twinge of bitterness, there's a flare of hope.

She doesn't want to be a Princess anymore, surrounded by adoring subjects and golden crowns and beautiful things. She wants the harsh brutality of her home, the coldness, the fighting, the clawing, the desperation to be free.

She only wants the North to be safe – always.

She looks at Jon, already so brooding, so tortured by what he's endured, and she grieves for him.

She grieves for the quiet boy she knew, the one who only ever expected to be a bastard and a broken thing. Maybe then a crow, a Lord, even a Lord Commander and a lover – but not a King. Never a king.

She wonders how he'll cope with the world upon his shoulders. More than anything, more than she wants to feel warm, more than she wants Winterfell for her own, she wants to share the burden.

"We did it together," she says softly, "we'll do this together. It's going to be really hard, and I'm sure at times you'll want to give up. But I'll be there, every step of the way. By your side. _My King_."

She says the title as a joke, a light-hearted yarn, still not quite comprehending it.

Jon's not joking when he says, "don't call me that. Not you."

She's not his subject.

"Okay," she murmurs quietly, "_Jon_."

Sansa’s dreaming.

She knows she’s dreaming.

She’s watching herself arch under Jon's touch as he tortures her, his mouth travelling to her jaw. She shudders, gripping him as his mouth descends lower, his fingers toying idly between her thighs.

Her hand darts down between them, attempting to touch his cock. She feels it twitch against her cunt, hot and hard, but he shakes his head at her impatience.

“Slow,” he orders huskily.

She closes her eyes, heart pounding against her ribcage. His unbearably talented mouth keeps playing her and her fevered brain struggles to process the sensations.

He knows what will bring her to the edge - every bite, every lick, every suck.

Suddenly, he’s kissing her. His mouth is slanting over hers, his tongue licking inside. She wants to crawl inside him and swallow him whole. His cock jumps again and she feels the answering pulse in her clit, hot and engorged.

“It’s all happening so fast,” she pants when they break away, cheeks so hot she’s sure she’ll burst into flames.

“It’s been years,” he disagrees, voice low, darkened eyes capturing hers, “how much longer do you need? How many more nights do I need to be away from you?”

“Years?” she asks breathlessly.

He sucks a mark into her neck, his touch gentle and passionate and so different from those who came before.

“Part of me has always wanted you this way,” he confesses, “but you weren’t for me. So highborn and pretty.”

She knows she can’t say the same, can’t say she had wanted him then. At best, she’d been indifferent. At worst, downright cruel.

_But._

“I want you now,” she says and means it with all her heart.

He covers her mouth with his and slips inside her.

It’s her own strangled gasp that jolts her awake.

Breathless and aching with equal parts shame and desire, she glances to her side, where Jon still sleeps soundly. In her dreams, she’s moved so that her legs are between his, practically riding his thigh, and she jolts back as though she’s been burned.

He hums in his sleep and turns over.

She fights the urge to slip her fingers between her thighs.

"People talk, you know."

She feels his chest rumble under her palm.

"About what?"

"Us," she shifts against his side to get more comfortable, right calf hooked around his, "This. They see me come into your chambers every night. They think us strange."

His chest rumbles again. This time, a laugh.

"Aye, maybe we are."

Her lips twitch.

"Do you care?"

"No," his answer is almost immediate - a soft, rumbling Northern brogue that sounds like home, "do you?"

"No."

It's only then that she realises, she _really_ doesn't.

"They think him a God," Tormund says one evening, bright eyes flicking to the Northerners around them, "the man who returned from the dead."

Sansa quirks a brow, sitting back slightly in her seat. There's something about Tormund, something warm and comforting and safe, and she finds she enjoys his council.

"He's not a God," she laughs at the absurdity of the statement.

Tormund laughs too – a cheerful, bellowing sound.

"Oh, I know that," he says, "I told him as much. He's prettier than both my daughters and no God could have a pecker that small!"

He laughs again, loud and outrageous, and Sansa feels her cheeks flush.

Before she can think too much about things she shouldn't, Jon himself is saving her.

"I hope you're not corrupting my little sister, Tormund," he teases, coming to stand behind Sansa's chair. Her skin prickles the way it always does when he's near, his presence like a blanket of warmth.

"Of course not," she murmurs, "I enjoy Tormund's company."

She finds it refreshing, how the wilding doesn't care for Westerosi traditions, for speaking to her like a lady, treating her like a broken doll. She doesn't want to be those things. She doesn't want to be Ramsay's Lady Bolton or Tyiron's Lady Lannister or Cersei's little dove.

She doesn't want Jon to see her like that.

She wants to be bold. She wants to be strong and brave like his wilding woman, the one Tormund had told her about.

_Kissed by fire_, he'd said,_ just like you._

Jon had loved her, deeply and fiercely, and she wants to know what that's like.

She thinks about it again that night, about Ygritte, when she's lying in Jon's arms.

She's resting with her back against his front, his body having turned towards hers in his sleep. His arm is draped across her middle, his breath soft and warm against her neck.

She wonders if this is how Ygritte felt, warm and happy and safe with him surrounding her.

But then, it couldn't have been, because she was in love with him and Sansa can't be.

She also thinks about what Tormund said. Jon _is_ pretty. With his dark eyes, strong jaw and inky curls, he's probably the most beautiful man she's ever seen. Far more beautiful than the golden princes of her childhood dreams.

And he's not a God, but a man. She can feel the evidence of that against the small of her back, a persistent nudge that has her cheeks flaring into heat.

She's not innocent, not a maid, and she knows it's just a normal, bodily reaction. But she can't stop the sudden ache between her thighs, the heat unfolding in the pit of her belly. In his sleep, his hips softly thrust against her, his arousal twitching hot and hard, and she fights the urge to gasp.

Face burning and wet between her thighs, she doesn't sleep all night.

Sansa doesn't know the wildling princess currently dancing circles around Jon. She doesn't care to. She only knows her name.

_Val_.

Perhaps that's not fair; she does know something else.

She knows that look. The carefully veiled emptiness behind her bright eyes. Sansa sees it in the mirror every day.

Val is lonely.

Lonely and lovely and lethal, she turns the head of every man in court, but only Jon might have her.

She sees it in the way the wildling moves, seductive and smooth, all long legs and cherry red lips. She sees it in the sultry gaze she throws at him, the twitch to her mouth as she lifts her arms and curls them around his neck.

Sansa stays rigid in her seat at the head of the table, curious eyes peeking over the edge of her cup. She watches her play with the inky curls at the nape of Jon's neck, the strands that have escaped the leather band tying them back, and her fingers itch.

She can't read Jon's body language. He would never give so much of himself away. He's always so closed off, so unreachable, just out of her grasp. So Sansa just watches as his hands find purchase on Val's waist, holding her too close to be innocent.

They all want a piece of their King, the man who saved them. Though he's not beholden to any vows anymore - just a man, rather than a man of the Night's Watch - Sansa never considered he might want a piece of someone back.

Clearly, he does – because the next time she sees Val, it's past midnight and she's giggling whilst sneaking out of his chambers.

She's just about to lift her hand to knock when the door opens of its own accord and then Jon's there and so is Val and he's wearing a smile she's never seen before.

It freezes when he sees her, and her blood turns cold.

"Oops, sorry…" the wildling drawls, eyes slightly widened but not looking apologetic in the slightest, "Sansa…" she nods to her before turning back to Jon, "King Crow…"

Her voice is playful, husky and light and carefree. Her ice blonde hair (_he's supposed to like redheads_) is tangled, her clothing dishevelled like she's just tossed it back on, and Sansa almost balks at her blatant disrespect.

If Jon cares, however, it doesn't show. He just gives the girl a smooth nod and then she's gone, disappearing as quickly as she arrived from beyond the wall.

It's silent for a moment, the atmosphere stretching out unbearably tense between them.

"_King Crow?_" Sansa says finally, voice hoarse from surprise and disuse, "you don't find that discourteous, her blatant disregard for your title?"

She wants to be the only one who doesn't have to call him King.

The realization sets her teeth on edge.

"The wildlings do not kneel."

_I'm sure you had her on her knees_, it sparks through her mind before she can stop it, and then her cheeks are tinting pink at the improper, brazen thought.

Jon quirks a brow curiously but she knows that look; his lips are pulled tight and his jaw is too clenched.

The air is so charged, so thin, she feels like she can't breathe.

"Sansa…"

Her name is a low, rumbling brogue. _Gods_, she loves the way he says her name. She can't hear it now, not after his tongue has been curling around that syllable – _Val_ – caressing someone else, kissing her, tasting her.

She shouldn't care.

She does.

"It's none of my business," she says quickly, plastering a fake smile on her face, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come."

Jon frowns and she tries to keep her eyes from drifting down to where his breeches are still unlaced, hanging low and open on his hips. Clearly she doesn't succeed, because his sharp eyes are darting from her gaze down to his breeches and back again. His jaw is set, eyebrow slightly quirked, as he slowly begins tying the laces.

Her cheeks burn as she realises she hasn't seen so much of his skin since they were children. His chest is bare, glistening slightly with sweat and the evidence of tonight's activities, and her eyes sweep across his collarbone.

He murmurs her name again and something unspoken passes between them. She's choking under the weight of it.

"I'm sorry," she says again – and she steps back.

His body seems to work on autopilot, through muscle memory, as he opens his door wider slightly. He glances at her, almost expectantly, but she can't move. She can't come in. Their safe haven has been sullied, tainted, and she can't stay here tonight.

It'll be the first night since Castle Black that Sansa sleeps alone.

It shouldn't feel like a betrayal, but it does.

"It just... happened," Jon says about Val two moons later, when she still hasn't graced his bed.

They're standing on the balcony, looking down at the men in the training yard below. Sansa turns to him, eyes fleeting over the pelts and furs wrapped around his strong shoulders, across the leather of his jerkin, down to Longclaw at his hip. His furrowed gaze is focused ahead, his gloved hands resting on the wood, and he looks like the King they've demanded he be.

"Why?" she asks, her voice creating rings of mist in the cold Northern air, "why her?"

Jon sighs, briefly closing his eyes.

"It didn't mean anything," he murmurs eventually, not answering the question.

Sansa can't help but push.

"Is it because she's a wildling? Her hair isn't red."

She winces at her own words, realising how they sound.

Jon must realise too because he turns his head to look at her, one brow slightly quirked.

"I don't only desire wildlings," he bites out, surprisingly harsh, "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

_You don't own me_, his words seem to say, _I don't own you._

Suddenly her eyes and throat burn, the word too small around her, and she wants to escape. To run. She doesn't know what she wants him to say, what would make her feel better, because she doesn't know what she wants.

She just wants to be able to sleep again.

She enters his chambers without knocking, fury sparking through her blood and burning under her skin.

She closes his door with a slam and then she's standing before him, practically shaking.

He barely lifts his gaze, unsurprised she's here.

"What were you thinking?" she cuts to the chase, angry eyes watching him as he stands and walks over to the roaring fire.

"I was thinking I would try to save our people," he bites back sardonically, "that I was doing what was best for the North."

"What's best for the North is our King being _in_ the North!"

He glances at her, expression unreadable, and she wants to shout at him, to shake him, to break him like he's breaking her.

"I told you we need allies," he reminds her, "powerful allies."

"She's our enemy," Sansa insists, brows furrowed.

"She's not," he insists quietly, "we have one enemy. Only one that matters if we're to survive this winter. Daenerys has connections. She has an army, and she has three dragons. We need her."

"We need you."

_I need you._

She comes to stand in-front of him, the fire casting hollowly shadows under his eyes and in all the right places.

Something flickers over his face, a brief sign of weakness, before his walls are back up around him.

"You'll be fine. You have friends, advisors, and I'll be back before you know it."

He's putting on a brave front, but the smile he sends her doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Jon, there have only been two Kings in the North in over 300 years. One rode South and died for it. You have to be smarter. Don't let the Northerners suffer by making Robb's mistakes. _Please_." 

She grabs his hand, blinking back hot tears, and she's not above begging.

His gaze is hard and unyielding as shadows from the flames lick up his face.

She lets out a heavy sigh, shaking her head slightly when she realises he won't break, won't even bend. She turns to walk away, can't bear to even say goodbye, when he grabs her hand and tugs her back to him.

She bites back a gasp, hand darting out against his chest to anchor herself. Her other hand remains clasped in his and he entwines their fingers.

Something sparks between them, so palpable she can practically taste it, and she can't think. She can't even _breathe_.

He looks down at her and there's a storm brewing behind his grey eyes.

"Don't walk away from me," he orders, but his voice is soft.

The low brogue causes an ache in her chest.

"You're the one who's walking away."

He lets go of her hand and she's aching from the loss. Somewhere along the way, she realises, she's come to need him. His strength, his warmth. The very touch of him. It makes her panic, to think of him journeying South and never coming back. To think she may never feel him again.

Time seems to stretch out before her, a yawning chasm, the rest of her long life without him. The intensity of it is too much to bear and she's reaching for him again. Her hands cling to his jerkin and she can't quite grasp the leather. She can't get close enough.

"Jon," she pleads again, bowing her head, tugging him closer still, "I am _begging_ you… send someone else. Don't go yourself. I've already lost so much."

"You won't lose me," he makes a promise he can't keep, standing still as a statue, as strong and unyielding as valerian steel as she clings to his chest.

She tips her chin, glancing up at him, and she doesn't even realise she's crying until his thumbs are sweeping across her flushed cheeks.

She leans into his touch and when she opens her eyes, her breath catches in her throat.

His face is so close to hers, she can feel the warmth of his breath and see curious specks of violet in his eyes and he's never looked at her like that before.

He looks pained, like a war is raging inside his head, and then his mouth is moving closer.

Sansa's stomach clenches, heart pounding against her ribcage so loudly she thinks he must hear it. As his unbearably pretty mouth hovers overs hers, her eyes flutter shut, preparing for the contact.

As quickly as the moment started, it's gone.

She feels his kiss – but not on her lips, on her forehead. His hand tangles in her hair as he presses his mouth to her head, and Sansa's skin burns with inexplicable disappointment.

"I will come home," he murmurs his promise against her skin.

It makes her cry again.

Because what he doesn't understand – what he's _never_ understood since the day he came back to her – is that every infuriating, stubborn word he speaks, every move he makes, her entire world depends upon.

The way that muscle near his left ear jumps when he clenches his jaw, the way he commands attention as soon as he walks into a room, the way he makes sure there are always lemon cakes in the pantry because he knows they're her favourite, the fierce way he loves their people… the little things that make him _him_… _these things_ have become home to her.

She's back in his bed that night.

Had she known then what she knows now, she'd never have left.

She's wasted so much time.

Nestled in the hollow of his throat, breathing in smoke and warmth and _Jon_, she can't help but feel like their precious direwolves. She curls into him tighter, lips grazing his collarbone.

In his sleep, he clutches her tighter to him, fingers dancing down her spine, committing her body to memory.

She brings her hand to his chest, the pad of her index finger drifting over his thin cotton shirt, over where she knows his deepest scar lay.

Breathless and aching all over, she traces an 'S' over his heart.

Then she finishes her name and leaves her mark on him.

She sleeps in his bed while he's gone.

The castle speaks, hushed, scandalised whispers bouncing off the walls, but she can't bring herself to care.

_The lady sleeps in the King's chambers_, they giggle, _all wrapped up in his furs._

It's the only place she feels safe. With his ghost, his scent, heavy and masculine, still lingering between the sheets.

From the foot of the bed, she hears Ghost's soft whine.

"I miss him too," she whispers and waits for a sleep that won't come.

When he's back in her arms, six moons later, Sansa finally feels like she can breathe again.

She watches him dismount his horse, gaze focused on her, and for a moment, he's all she can see.

Then again, he's always been all she could see.

She buries her face in his neck, hands gripping at his furs like she's scared he'll fall away, slip through her fingers again and vanish into the dark. This was all she wanted. _This_. And now she can see him and feel him and be with him, _finally_.

It doesn't seem real.

Especially not when he's pulling away and her hands are aching from the loss and he's introducing her to the Dragon Queen.

"Winterfell is yours, your Grace," she says in that practiced voice, a tight smile pulling at her lips.

Daenerys smiles happily as Jon and Bran grimace beside them. The Queen doesn't know her well enough yet to detect the venom in her voice.

_Winterfell will never be yours. It's not yours_, a voice whispers at the back of Sansa's mind, _and neither is Jon._

It's not as easy as she thought it would be, falling back into their old routines.

She's got him back, but much has changed since he's been gone, and he's brought more than an army and dragons back with him.

Daenerys is here, and Sansa feels her presence like a thorn in her side.

Arya is here too and Sansa's warmed by the look on Jon's face when he sees her, all surprise and pure, unadulterated joy. She watches her run to him, watches them embrace, watches him clutch her to his chest like she's nine years old again, and when he kisses Bran on the forehead, she finally feels safe.

The last of the Starks, together again.

They all dine together that first night, seated at the head table, and as Sansa's curious eyes rake over the Dragon Queen, she thinks it feels unnatural, with an extra chair wedged in.

Someone doesn't belong.

She's brimming with fury when he finally stands and divulges that he's abandoned his crown. She wants to protest, to shout, to wipe the smug look off Daenerys' face. She wants her to take the dragons that don't belong here and she wants her gone.

Mostly, she wants her to stop looking at Jon like that.

_Mine_, the wolf inside her growls.

He doesn't look surprised when he opens the door to her that evening.

He must have known she would come.

She almost didn't - because she's angry and upset and she doesn't think she can bear to look at him. Yet her legs carried her here regardless, tired of being alone, tired of missing him.

As he opens the door wider for her and she walks inside, she tries to shake off the feeling that she's walking into battle. They've had one conversation just the two of them and it hadn't ended well, with him accusing her of having no faith in him and her firing back that he only bent the knee because he's a lovesick fool.

She doesn't want to fight again but she's burning at the sight of him, standing by the fire like he never left.

Her gaze flits over his room, a room she knows better than her own. She glances at the bed they shared - too close to be innocent, she now realises – to the fireplace where they said goodbye, the desk where he sat as she cleaned his wounds after battle. He'd won back Winterfell for her, brought her home, and she'd been so grateful.

Now he's given it to the Dragon Queen… and it was all for nothing.

"Sansa, you have to believe me…" he's speaking now, turning to face her, a tortured expression on his face, "I wrestled with this decision."

"That you made without me."

Her tone is unforgiving, her body stretched tense and taut like the string of a bow.

"You weren't there. You haven't seen what I've seen. We need allies more than I need a crown."

_She was there,_ Sansa burns under the implication, _she saw what I saw._

"You know, I don't sleep anymore," she says eventually, feeling a perverse sense of accomplishment when _something_ flickers over his stoic features, "I just lay awake staring at the ceiling, because if I close my eyes, I dream about you dying. I see you riding South and never coming back. I see you fallen in battle or murdered like Robb. This was all I wanted. _This_. To be together again, the last of the Starks. But… you're different."

He shifts slightly, holding her gaze for a moment before he breaks it with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Her anger rises.

"You have nothing to say?" she bites out with a harsh shrug, eyes and throat burning, "_Nothing_?"

His expression is blank and he can't meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry." He says eventually, but it sounds empty and hollow.

She's too tired to fight.

"Let's just go to bed," she sighs, taking a step back.

His eyes seem to darken, gaze raking over her, before he takes a step back too. She can't work out his expression, he's always so hidden from her, and she quirks a brow.

"We can't, Sansa. Not anymore," his voice cuts through her colder than the North in winter, "it's not right."

Sansa's chest constricts painfully.

"You're sending me away?"

He shakes his head emphatically, taking a step towards her, but she holds out her hands.

"Of course not. I will always be there for you, you know that. I just…" he's never been good with his words, probably one of the reasons he speaks so few of them, and they seem to lodge in his throat, "I don't think it would be fair on Dany to have another woman in my bed. Even my sister."

The ache in her chest intensifies, both at having him put _her_ needs above hers and the mention of their family link – because she hasn't looked at him the way a sister should in years.

He has the decency to at least look sorry and he reaches for her again.

He's always trying to do the right thing, but he's searching in all the wrong places. 

She turns to leave before he can touch her.

He calls her name just as her hand hovers over the door handle.

"If it means anything…" he starts, "I missed you."

His voice is quiet, soft and low.

_Not enough._

She leaves.

It hurts that he doesn't ask her to stay.

The next time she sees him - _truly_ sees him, without suspicious Northerners and foreign outsiders sniffing around – he's drunk.

She knows Daenerys has been here. Even if she hadn't seen her rushing out of his chambers, an upset expression etched on her beautiful features, she'd be able to tell. The atmosphere seems to blister, the chill nothing to do with the open window bringing in the cold Northern air, and he runs a hand over his face.

From where he sits, perched on the edge of his bed, he looks sad and conflicted and very tired and she just wants to lay him down and wrap him up in the colours of their house.

"Are you alright?" she asks, closing the door behind her.

He lets out a humourless huff of breath.

"Not particularly."

She shifts on her feet, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Did you have a fight?"

Another sharp exhale.

"Dun' want to talk about it," he slurs, rolling his shoulders and pulling at his jerkin. Either he can't be bothered or he physically can't get it off, because he's soon giving up with a sigh.

Sansa sighs, hesitating for only a moment before she takes pity on him and goes to help. She stands in-front of him, gently tapping the outside of his thighs so he can open them and she can stand between them.

"Lift your arms," she orders like he's a child. He's too tired to argue, his eyes dark and glassy, and he does as she says.

She's silent as she removes his clothes, her movements almost clinical. Soon she's gotten him down to his breeches and soft, cotton shirt and she's just about to lean down to attempt the boots when he grabs her wrist. For the most part, he'd been pliant, but his limbs aren't the only thing the alcohol has loosened because he's soon murmuring things he never would in the light of day.

"Gods, you feel…" he stops, his forehead tipping forward to rest on her stomach. His hands anchor themselves on her waist, fingers holding on tight, and she doesn't know what to do with her own.

Her arms hang awkwardly by her side for a beat, before she slowly brings her hands up to his head. Softly, she tugs at the band tying his hair back and lets her fingers twine through his soft curls. She's always liked his hair better this way, boyish and free.

For a moment, she can pretend they're children again. That she has the chance for a do-over and this time, she won't be cruel to him just to make mother happy. That he never went to the wall and Robb and Rickon are still here and Father never rode South.

"How?" she whispers eventually, "how do I feel?"

"Like home," he mumbles into her, his mouth hot even through the material of her dress.

His words warm her blood, a soft glow in the pit of her stomach. Despite everything, despite who warms his bed, he's a Northern man. A wolf. He always will be.

"Do you remember that night... before I left?" he's slurring again. She's only just about able to make out his words, muffled as they are into her dress, so she softly tugs at his curls so he can look up at her.

His eyes are blown to black, dark and bleary, but they shine with something other than alcohol.

"What about it?"

His hands drift dangerously low, the atmosphere thinning.

"I wanted to kiss you."

Sansa's eyes widen, not so much stunned at the revelation, but at his admitting it.

"Jon…"

She doesn't know what this means, can't make sense of it. All she can do is keep holding him while he's back to muttering nonsense into her dress.

"Was wrong. You were my sister."

"I'm still your sister," she whispers, though the words sound wrong on her tongue.

He lifts his gaze at that, something unreadable flickering through his dark eyes.

He looks like he's in on a secret he's not sharing.

"Doesn't matter," he slurs, "none of it matters."

She sighs, taking a step back. As she moves away, she feels him softly grab her hand, entwining his fingers with hers.

He feels warm from the fire and everything that's familiar and safe and _good_.

"Stay," he mutters without looking at her, softly tugging at her fingers.

She should protest, his words from mere nights before - _we can't, it's not right_ \- echoing in her mind. He's drunk and she doesn't know what he talked about with the Dragon Queen, but it's clear that he's hurting. So she does what she's always done when he needs her help.

She lays down beside him and lets their fingertips touch.

His confession still burns at the front of her mind.

"The men need to rest, Jon," Sansa says one evening after the final battle is won, when they're all caked in mud and blood and pain again, "they've been through so much."

"I know."

"Do you?" she pushes, anger rising, "because I didn't see you saying anything in there when she demanded they immediately ride South to take Kings Landing."

From where he stands in-front of her, hunched over his desk, she watches the muscles in his back tense.

He doesn't turn to look at her.

"She'll be a good Queen."

She's thankful he can't see her roll her eyes but her disbelieving scoff hangs heavy in the air.

"Is that all you can say?" she shrugs aggressively, "what happened to you? What happened to the brave and clever man who rode South? That's who you are, Jon. Who you should be. The North should be a free and independent Kingdom and you should be our King. You know that."

He bows his head and his hair is loose and wild, the way it always is when he's had a long, terrible day and he's been running his hands through it.

"I don't know anything anymore," he admits quietly, "I just want to _sleep_, Sansa. I want to rest."

The words hurt but she won't let them affect her. She has a point to make.

She takes a step towards him and her hand kind of reaches for his shoulder before she pulls it back.

"Can't we stop this now?" she whispers, exasperated, "it's done. The war is over. Say thank you to Daenerys for her help and send her away. She doesn't belong here. I get it, you've made your point. If you're trying to hurt me, you've succeeded. We couldn't have won without her army and her dragons and you were right and I was wrong and I'm grateful. So… it's done."

He sighs again and she watches his hands grip the edge of the desk, curling into the wood.

"Never meant to hurt you," he murmurs and of all the things he could've said right then, that's the worst.

Because if he never meant to hurt her, if he's not playing any sort of game, then he's with Daenerys because he _wants_ to be.

He didn't bend the knee to save the North or for her dragons or her armies. He's not trying to distract himself from whatever _this_ is - this confusing, fragile, inexplicable thing that they are - the heat that's been unfolding between them since Castle Black. He didn't lay with her to protect the North. He did it because he loves her.

Sansa’s chest aches and her throat feels dry and she just wants him to hold her – because even though he hurts her, he’s the only one who makes her feel better too.

He turns around and she can’t bear him looking at her like that, all soft and concerned and warm. Sorrow and jealousy and anger swirl in the pit of her stomach, fighting for precedence. She chooses anger.

“You may have given our home away, but I still have a say here. I still matter. Our men need to rest – and they will.”

She doesn’t give him the chance to reply.

Something changes, the day he tells them the truth of who he is.

_You’re our brother, _Arya had fiercely insisted as they sheltered under the heavy branches of the Weirwood tree, _you weren’t our half brother then, and you’re not our cousin now. Nothing has changed._

Sansa had stayed quiet, unable to even look at him... because _everything _has changed.

Just like that, like a lightning spark, things slot into place. Things begin to make sense. Like the strange warmth that prickles her skin when he brushes past her. The pull in her gut when he gifts her with a rare smile. The ache between her thighs when his manhood had pressed against her in his sleep. Not typically reactions inspired by siblings.

Not by Starks siblings at least.

Not that this makes things any easier.

After-all, he’s still with Daenerys and there’s still a gulf between them.

_I wanted to kiss you._

_I wanted to kiss you._

_I wanted – _

Sansa shakes her head, clearing the fog from her mind. It won’t do to think of that now, not when his arm is curled around her waist and he’s looking at her like that.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs into her hair while they’re safely nestled in a dimly lit corner of Winterfell’s crypt.

She’d slipped on an uneven slab of stone while they walked side by side and he’d caught her. He’d never let her fall. There’s no longer any reason for their closeness, but his arm remains around her waist, anchoring her to him.

“Thank you,” she breathes, her eyes flitting over his cheekbone where his newest scar, thin and silvery white, is already beginning to form. She can’t help but find them attractive, these maps that lay bare his unfaltering strength, his bravery. Her hands trail down his chest to his side, where she knows his ribs are still bruised from battle.

He hisses at the contact, taking a step back, but she has him in a vice-like grip.

“Sansa…” he chokes on the word, pupils blown to black as she clings to him.

Bright blue on molten grey, their eyes lock and the air feels heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Jon…”

“I can’t. It hurts,” he bites out – and he’s not talking about his scarred face or the bruises on his body.

Over his shoulder, illuminated by a halo of candlelight, Sansa catches sight of Lyanna Stark. 

_A Targaryen Prince fell for a Northern girl, and seven kingdoms paid the price. _

A shiver passes through her.

Sansa stands tall as she walks into the hall, feeling eyes on her.

She’s wearing her most intricate gown, hair tied in delicate braids, and Jon’s dancing with a different blonde this time, but it feels like before.

He catches sight of her from across the room, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She can’t hear what he’s saying to Daenerys but she can see him lean down to whisper something in her ear.

The Queen smiles at him, very much the adoring lover, but Sansa knows women and she knows _that _smile, tight lipped and tense.

Whether Jon notices or not, he’s soon moving over to her.

Once he reaches her, he straightens, looks down to her shoes, then back to her face and lets out a low whistle.

“You look lovely, Sansa.”

Sansa nods, about to give her thanks, when Tyrion arrives by their side.

“Lovely is too plain a word,” he insists loftily, “you are simply stunning, my Lady.”

Jon’s upper lip curls at one corner slightly and he looks away.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa mumbles and smiles at the imp, but keeps Jon in the corner of her eye. He’s wearing his best doublet and dark shirt and he’s back to not shaving and his hair is neatly tied back and _gods, _he’s still so beautiful it makes her want to cry.

She wants to dance with him – but she lets Tyrion drag her away instead.

Three hours and twice as many cups of wine later, Sansa’s back in her chambers, brushing her hair in-front of her mirror.

There are two raps on the door, sure and steady, and she knows it’s Jon. She’s always been able to tell.

“Come in,” she calls – and then he’s there, looking angry and fierce.

“What’s wrong?”

He lets out a humourless laugh.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats coldly, “were you ever going to tell me what you discussed with Tyrion out there, or was it to be a surprise?”

Sansa pauses for a moment, the cogs in her head turning, before she releases a heavy sigh.

“What difference does it make? Clearly Daenerys has told you regardless, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

Jon’s hands are curled into fists at his side and she hasn’t seen him like this since he was caked with blood on the battlefield, fierce and passionate and wild.

“Sansa, you can’t…” he shakes his head momentarily, as though he literally can’t sort through his thoughts, “…you can’t honestly be considering this?”

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, turning back to her mirror and pulling the brush through her hair.

“It makes sense,” she says, even though it doesn’t, “Tyrion is a good man. He’s not like the other Lannisters. If we married, Daenerys would have the powerful allies she needs and I would be safe. It wouldn’t be like before.”

Jon opens his mouth but it seems he can’t find the words. His expression is incredulous, the anger vibrating from him in waves.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

Anger flares in her gut as she turns in the chair to face him.

“I’m not asking _anything _of you. It’s nothing to do with you. The war is over and soon _you’ll _be with her, by her side as she takes that throne you say you don’t want. So, you will let _me _ensure the safety of the North. You will let me have this before you leave me.”

Her voice shakes at the end of her speech and she turns her face away from him, furiously blinking back traitorous tears.

She can’t look at him, but she can feel him. He’s closer now, standing just behind her chair.

“I know things have been… _difficult_ between us lately,” he says quietly, “but Sansa… all I’ve ever wanted is to keep you safe.”

“You always made me feel safe,” she says before her eyes flicker upwards and connect with his in the mirror, “and then you took it away, except when you were _drunk. _Then it was somehow acceptable. Why would you do that?”

Her voice is derisive, resentful, as she references her expulsion from his bed.

He closes his eyes briefly and when they open, his pupils have dilated and his gaze is dark.

“You know why,” he says lowly, his voice heavy with implication.

It's a warning she’s never listened to. 

“I’m your _sister_,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes and standing, eager to get away from this conversation, “and you denied me some innocent comfort despite knowing everything I’ve been though.”

This seems to get his attention and finally, he snaps.

As she tries to walk away, he grabs her, fingers hot around her wrist.

She gasps as he spins her to face him. His hands fly to her forearms and her breath catches in her throat at the wildness in his eyes.

“It wasn’t innocent,” he all but growls, “it _still_ isn’t innocent.”

And then the world stutters to a halt, because he grips her tighter and crashes his mouth to hers.

Sansa gasps as her back hits the wall, everything pulsing brighter, burning hotter than before.

Jon takes advantage of her surprise by slipping his tongue into her mouth, entwining with hers, fighting for dominance. She whimpers against his onslaught, stunned at the passion flowing from his normally restrained fingertips.

It’s been this way since that first kiss a few nights ago.

Now the floodgates have been opened and it doesn’t seem to matter that they’re cousins or Daenerys is in the same castle or this can only end badly. 

“No marks,” she moans when he breaks away from her mouth and starts biting down her neck, his tongue laving the kisses he leaves behind.

He grunts his approval into her skin, hands gripping her waist.

They’re playing with fire, she knows that much. If Daenerys sees the marks on her neck... if anyone sees... they’ll open themselves up to questions they can’t answer. Their heads will probably end up on spikes, and yet neither can stop.

“Please,” she begs for nothing in particular, arching against him. As he kisses along her jaw, her eyes squeeze shut as her hips rock into his. Her legs splay open of her own accord and then she feels it, an insistent bulge pressing against the dampening apex of her thighs. Pleasure sparks from her head to her toes as she rubs against it, revelling in the choked groan he lets out into her neck.

“_Sansa_…”

_Gods, _she loves the way he says her name.

“Inside me,” she pants, grabbing his face and dragging his mouth to hers once more, “I need you inside me.”

He pulls away for a moment, a question flashing across his tortured features.

“I’m sure,” she answers for him, hand darting down to cup his hard cock through his breeches, “Jon… haven’t we waited long enough?”

When he carries her to the bed, spreading her legs and sliding inside her – _finally _– it feels like home.

Sansa keens against the bed, every inch as wild as their precious direwolves, as Jon laps at her wet cunt.

He’s got a mouth prettier than most women she knows, and he plays her like an instrument he mastered years ago. Fingers digging into her thighs, he spreads her wider, tongue sliding up and down, wringing out her pleasure.

His name is a choked gasp as she buries her fingers in his curls, tugging so hard it must be painful. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting out an answering moan into her cunt, his teeth scraping her clit.

_Does she taste like me? _a dark, possessive voice whispers at the back of her mind, _do they sound like me, the noises she makes when she fucks your mouth?_

He pulls back slightly, pausing his onslaught to run two fingers down her slit and spread her, wet with slick and spit. She moans at the wild look in his eyes, dark and burning out of control, and then he’s slipping two calloused fingers inside her and his mouth is wet with her again.

Beneath the desire, he looks torn, conflicted and lost. 

“Tell me to stop,” he almost begs.

_I’d rather die, _she almost says.

"You know… I might be young, but I’m not stupid,” Arya says as she twirls Needle in her hands. When she lifts her gaze, her brow is arched.

Sansa shuffles on her feet, her skin prickling.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” Arya shrugs, “I won’t pretend it’s not weird for me, but that’s not what I’m worried about. If _I’ve_ noticed, the Dragon Queen could notice and what would happen then?”

Her voice is scolding and Sansa fights the urge to shrink, feeling very much like the younger sister.

_I don't care, _she thinks petulantly, _h__e's mine. He's of the North. I loved him first._

“I-” the words lodge in her throat, “it just happened.”

Arya’s features scrunch into a look of distaste.

“I _really _don’t want to know the details. It’s different for you than it is for me. I get that. He was never a brother to you. And you’ve been through so much together.”

Sansa nods, still unsure what to say.

“I’m glad you understand. It’ll be okay, Arya.”

“It has to be,” she says; she can’t lose anyone else, “you know, I used to feel so smug. I’d look at Needle and think _look at what he gave me_. Look how he loved me better. He gave me this, what did he ever give you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and significant. 

The sisters wear matching, melancholy smiles. 

“I don’t want to share you anymore,” she mutters one night while she curls into his side, body aching and tired, his seed still wet between her thighs.

She feels, more than hears, his sigh.

“I don’t lay with her,” he says and the revelation stuns her, “I haven’t since I found out… who I am. I know that doesn’t make it right. I just… thought you should know.”

“That was three moons ago,” Sansa says, incredulous, turning on her side to face him.

He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and his fingers trace absentminded circles on the small of her back. 

She speaks again when she realises he’s not going to give her anything else.

“Do you love her?”

Her voice is quiet and she almost doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Aye,” he murmurs and her chest tightens, “but not the way I love you.”

Her eyes burn and she can’t breathe and he’s never said that before. 

“And how do you love me?”

He turns to face her then, a sad smile on his face.

In that moment, he looks so much like the lost boy she knew – unwanted, unloved.

“In all the ways I have no right to.”

_But you do, _she wants to say, but the words lodge in her throat, _you’ve always had the right. You’ve always been enough._

She presses her lips to his, soft and slow, and hopes her kiss portrays everything her mouth can’t say. 

When the war is over, when the bodies are buried in dust, Jon journeys home. 

He’s different, cold and shattered by what he’s done.

“There’s blood on my hands,” he whispers that first night as he scrubs them in the copper washbasin, “I can’t get it off.”

Sansa approaches him slowly, like you would a startled animal, before she softly takes his hands and turns them over in her own.

They’re wrinkled from the water and red from excessive scrubbing, but Daenerys’ blood is long gone.

“It’s gone,” she murmurs softly, “Jon, it’s over.”

He turns in her arms and grabs her face, hands damp and warm and strong.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands, but his body trembles.

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, her gaze drifting over his tortured face.

“I’m yours,” she says without hesitation, but she needs to hear it too, “and you?”

“Yours,” he repeats, eyes drifting shut as he presses his forehead against hers, “I’ve always been yours.”

He drags her mouth to his and she feels _everything_ in that kiss.

_I’m sorry. _

_I love you._

_I’m home. _

Years later, when the world has turned, the people sing songs about the White Wolf and his Queen. 

_Jon loved his lady Sansa_, they say. They share stories of the life they built together, of a prosperous North, of a Winterfell filled with warmth and laughter, of happy children with inky curls and Tully blue eyes. 

_A Targaryen Prince fell in love with a Northern girl, _they say, only this time, Seven Kingdoms didn't care. 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, I just couldn't get this out of my mind. I know bed sharing is soooo overdone, but I'm a sucker for it. Hope people found something to enjoy at least! I'm at a standstill with Run to You and I don't love you - but I promise I haven't forgotten about them and will be working on them as soon as inspiration strikes!


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